Nothing is More Articulate
by JamesLuver
Summary: They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but Anna thinks a kiss is worth a thousand more.
1. I

**A/N:** For markcampbells, who requested #13 _"Kiss me"_. I used angel-princess-anna's A/B timeline to get a few pesky details since it can be a nightmare trying to figure out the timings. The next part will deal with series four to six.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

 _"The mouth is made for communication, and nothing is more articulate than a kiss."_ – Jarod Kintz

* * *

 _Nothing is More Articulate_

 _May, 1914_

The very air crackles with electricity when he takes her hand for the very first time. They've brushed against each other before, of course, but nothing like this. Anna's breath catches in her throat, lost to her forever. Mr. Bates' fingers are works of art; calloused from years of hard labour and harder hardships, yet somehow velvety despite it all. They rub just softly over the backs of her own fingers, setting her on fire and making her shiver all in one go. She doesn't know where to look. His eyes are turbulent caramel fire on her as he gazes at her with such overt longing, and she feels as if she's swimming in the honeyed warmth. When she glances down, she is almost hypnotised by the sheer difference in size between their hands. He is a mighty, majestic bear, she the cat. It shouldn't work. But somehow, it does.

Anna notices that Mr. Bates' eyes have dropped to their joined hands too. He's only holding her fingers—enveloping them entirely—but the sheer intimacy of the gesture is almost overwhelming. She hasn't had physical contact in years, not since her time as a tweeny when the hall boy three years her senior had misread her tentative friendship and kissed her. The slap had stung her hand and marked his face and she'd sworn to herself that she would never trust a man again.

And yet here she is, her heart pounding not in fear but in deep, aching yearning, and she is dizzy with it all. _Kiss me_ , she thinks desperately. _Please, kiss me_.

And he leans towards her and she stretches up towards him and she can smell his raw, masculine smell, the mix of light sweat and soap, feel his hot, uneven breath on her mouth and her head reels from it all—

The sound of the crates crashing to the floor makes them spring apart. Anna glances up into Mr. Bates' eyes for reassurance. In that split-second she reads the world: his exquisite, self-loathing, his resignation, the bleak future ahead of him. It would have been a kiss goodbye. The realisation sours her delirious longing of a moment previous, and her hand slips loose from his. He does not try to take it again. He does not try to stop her. She turns on her heels and flees, like the baby colt from the jaws of a predator.

Her mouth tastes of ash from a phantom kiss that she's never even known.

* * *

 _August, 1914_

She finds him outside with his head tipped back to contemplate the stars. The loud babble from the young men filters from inside, a jarring merriment to his obvious discomfort.

"Are you all right?" she asks softly as she approaches.

"I will be," he replies with a painful, guarded smile.

"I imagine it's hard for you, hearing this. After what you went through."

"It is," he agrees, but offers no more than that. He shuffles to the left to give her room to sit next to him, his reply to her unanswered question. She takes the seat, all too aware of how her leg presses against his injured one in the small space. If he finds the contact uncomfortable he does not let it show.

At last Mr. Bates breaks the silence between them. His voice is hesitant and quiet, as if he is betraying himself to speak of these things. Anna counts it as a victory, turning her head towards him so she can look into his eyes. So he knows that he has her full attention, no matter what he has to say.

"What's hardest is knowing that they have no idea of what's coming to them." He speaks slowly, as if each word causes his throat to burn. "They're all so young, what could they know? They think it's some great adventure. It's not." Automatically, his hand moves down to rub against his knee. It brushes against her clothed skin. For long seconds she can't catch her breath.

"I was young when you were fighting the Boers," she blurts on a whim, hating to draw attention to their age difference—she's sure it figures into his reasons why they can never be more than they are—but needing him to understand. "I don't know anything about war. But I understand pain and fear, and I know what it must have been like for you." Her mouth twists against the memories that threaten to overwhelm her, of breath stinking of whiskey and hot, clammy hands on her body. "I know that battles aren't glorious."

Mr. Bates looks at her strangely, but she shakes her head. She won't even tell him. Instead she keeps her gaze level, willing him to see the wisdom. It dawns on his face like the grey sunlight on a new day, silvering his reaction. He says nothing, but Anna knows he understands. Tentatively, she reaches out to touch his hand, still curled around his cane. He flinches just slightly at the contact, but he doesn't pull away. A victory. With fingers that tremble despite her best efforts, she uncurls his from around the handle and replaces the smooth wood with her own hand. She's never felt the full effect of his hand in hers before, with the broad, strong meat of his palm pressed snugly against hers, and her heart very nearly explodes in her chest at the perfection of the moment. He does not shake her off. Anna watches the lump in his throat bob as he swallows hard, his eyes drawn inexplicably to hers. There's so much at war in his gaze; self-loathing and longing and want, and yes, love. Love shining through like the sun's rays through murky water. Her heart jolts as if it's freefalling through the air, seconds away from falling at his feet. It's up to him now. To save it, nurture it. Or to let it smash before him into a thousand jagged shards, never to be glued together again.

"Anna," he breathes.

She draws nearer, pressing her spare hand to the back of his. Surrounding him. She's close to him now, closer than she has been in a long time. In the faint light from the back door she can see a myriad of colours in his irises, an explosion of patterns from an artist's brush. Love comes in at the eyes, she thinks giddily. Mr. Bates takes a shaky breath and tries to extricate himself. She tightens her hold.

"Anna," he says again. A warning? A plea? She leans in closer, so close that now she can smell that powerful masculine smell, the one that has haunted her dreams for the past two months. She needs him more than she needs air. This time, she won't run away.

"Kiss me, Mr. Bates," she whispers. "Please."

The words linger, pressing down upon them. For long moments neither of them move. Anna watches the conflict chase across his face, the shadows battling for dominance. She squeezes his hand within both of hers and prays for the safety of her heart. She can't take another rejection. Not now.

"I can't," he says.

"You can," she returns. "You _can_."

"I'm a married man. People will talk. People will judge. It's not right or fair to give you false hope when there is none to have."

"I know the situation," she says quietly. "I don't expect things to be resolved for Sunday. I just want you, Mr. Bates, in whatever capacity that might be."

"I can never be more than your friend."

"But you love me." It's a statement. She won't give him the chance to deny it. His eyes can't lie.

He looks away, ignoring her words, face a mask of exquisite agony.

"What sort of man would I be," he whispers, "if I tied you down to something that can never be?"

"Are you selfless enough to let me go?" she returns. "Can you stand by and watch me make a life with another man?"

Something in his stony façade crumbles, his face breaking apart like majestic ruins. The hand that she isn't holding finds his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"God help me," he says. "I'm not. I'm not."

The invisible weight crushing her chest lifts suddenly, and she takes a deep, deep breath in gratitude. "Thank God. Because I'm not selfless enough to let your final decision stand. I love you. I don't care about what we have to do to be together. All I want is you."

"I love you too, Anna," he whispers. Desperate. Afraid. "I tried my damndest not to. But I am a weak, weak man."

It's all she's ever wanted to hear. She doesn't care about the rest of it, not then. Those are worries for other days, for more uncertain times. Happiness is a fleeting thing. She plans to grab it with both hands and hold it as tightly as she can. Whatever comes, he can't take this back. He loves her, and she loves him.

"You've got to kiss me now," she murmurs.

Mr. Bates gives a painful little chuckle, looking down at their joined hands. "I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"

"Of course you have a choice. I just assumed this is the course of action you'd want to take," she says coyly.

"God, yes," he agrees. But he's surprisingly shy, and she is surprisingly bold, and it is down to her to close the gap between them and press her mouth to his for the very first time. No interruptions.

The shock that jolts through her system at the contact is the most incredible thing that she has ever felt in her life. Her hands drop from his to scrabble at the shoulders of his jacket, and she tries to shuffle closer to bring them even further into contact. She's never kissed anyone else—her stepfather ensured that she never looked at another boy—and she has little clue about what she's doing. All she knows is that she's following some primitive need that awoke the moment her lips came into contact with his. It encompasses her. A kind of sneaking madness that she knows she'll never be able to escape again. She needs this, the cool pressure of his mouth against hers, more than she's needed anything before.

When they break apart, shy and exhilarated, she peers into his eyes. They're warm as honey in the darkness.

"How was it?" she whispers, biting at her lip, only slightly afraid of his reply.

Mr. Bates chuckles, his hand moving to brush a strand of hair that has escaped her bun away from her cheek. Her skin crackles where he touches her. "Better than I ever imagined."

"So you have imagined it, then?" she says, unable to stop the cheeky comment, and he laughs, low and rich.

"More than I should ever admit."

They remain locked together for a few minutes longer. Anna relishes the contrast of his heat with the cold air, his bare skin against hers. She wants to kiss him again, but resists for the moment. There is something playing on his mind, she can sense it in the furrow of his brow.

"This isn't going to be easy," he says quietly.

"I know."

"I can't court you properly. I can't walk out with you in public."

"I know."

"I don't know where my wife is."

"I know." She pauses for a moment, plays with the lapel of his jacket while she gathers her courage. "Can I ask one thing of you?"

"If it's in my power, I'll try to fulfil it for you."

She lowers her voice, keeping her gaze steady. Fearless, even if her heart pounds beneath the reams of black fabric. "Will you look for your wife?"

Mr. Bates doesn't answer for several long seconds. So much time passes that she almost feels uncomfortable with it, but she never lowers her gaze. And, at last, success: he reaches out and takes her hand again. Squeezes it. Breath that she hadn't even been aware of holding rushes from her.

"I'll explore every avenue that I can. I promises, Anna."

"That's all I ask for," she whispers.

The crinkles around his eyes deepen, and he kisses her sweetly again.

* * *

 _November, 1916_

The words still reverberate in her head. A proposal. If that was what she wanted to call it.

As if he even needed to ask. There was nothing else on earth that she wanted to call it.

He'd kissed her softly and sweetly in the aftermath, tugging her body close to his so that he could envelop her in his arms. She'd clung to his broad, thick shoulders, burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in the warm, spicy scent of his skin. The air was cold, but it hadn't been the reason that she shivered so violently. It was him, all him. His big hands running up and down her back had never felt so perfect.

It's past midnight now, and everyone else has gone to bed. The bright electric lights would feel too inappropriate in such a moment, so Mr. Bates has lit the oil lamp and set in burning lowly in the middle of the table. They sit in their usual seats, chairs turned towards each other, knees brushing intimately. Anna can't stop smiling as their hands hold tight beneath the line of the table.

"I can't believe it," she whispers; to speak any louder would break the spell. "We're engaged."

Mr. Bates chuckles lowly, sweeping his thumb along the line of her knuckles. "We are." His tone is filled with wonder, as if he can't quite believe it has come to pass. To be truthful, she can barely believe it either. Her heart aches for the fact that it's been his dear mother's death that has brought them their good fortune in finding Vera, but she hopes that somewhere up there, Mrs. Bates is pleased that her son is finding the path to happiness once more.

"I have to say, I was expecting a more romantic proposal than that," she teases, savouring the way that his big hands cradle her. It is so hard not to lean forward to capture his mouth again. He's her fiancé now.

"I wasn't proposing," he teases right back. "You were the one who wanted to call it that."

"Oh, charming. What a way to treat the woman you love."

His eyes soften. "But I do love you, Anna May Smith."

"I'm glad," she says.

"Whatever happens, never doubt that."

"I won't. I promise."

They sit quietly by for a few more minutes, the cups of tea in front of them slowly cooling in the cold air of the servants' hall. Mr. Bates' fingers move up to brush against her cheekbone. She stirs at the touch, feeling it right in the pit of her stomach. He's smiling that special, rare smile, the one reserved for her, the one that makes the creases around his eyes deepen and his eyes shine with love. It's a beautiful expression on his face. She wishes she could bottle it, take it out at will in the darkness of her room. The words spill from her lips before she can stop them.

"Kiss me."

If possible, his smile widens. "I kissed you outside."

"That was hours ago," she points out. "And we're alone here."

"We certainly are," he murmurs. "Thank God for that." His thumb glides lower, brushing against her lower lip. She closes her eyes at the sensation. The feeling in the pit of her stomach tightens further.

Mercifully, he does not make her ask again. Closing the space between them, he moves his mouth slowly and softly over hers. Outside, when anyone could interrupt them, their kisses had been tempered and chaste. Now, in the witching hour, squirrelled away in a world of their own, she feels more adventurous. Anna opens her mouth beneath his, hears the groan that rumbles in his throat when her tongue slips out to meet his own. They've only risked this a handful of times in their long courtship, when they'd both been sure that no one could come across them, but each encounter had left Anna dizzy with longing. This is how a man should kiss his wife, she thinks dizzily. If only they were married.

But they're taking steps in the right direction. Vera has been found. Mr. Bates is confident of getting a divorce. Within the next year they should truly be husband and wife together, in every sense of the word. She burns with longing, but she can be patient. She has waited this long. What's another year compared with a lifetime of his presence by her side?

* * *

 _April, 1919_

The door clicks closed behind them. They are alone.

Anna faces Mr. Bates—John—from the other side of the room. For a moment, they stare at each other. The only discernible sounds are the crack and pop of the fire as it roars merrily in the hearth and the laboured rush of air that signifies their own breathing.

"Mrs. Bates," he breathes, and she giggles. A childish, free thing, but she doesn't care. They are the words she's longed to hear for more than five whole years. She's going to savour the moment.

John loiters uncertainly, before crossing the room to her side. His hand trembles as he reaches out to brush his thumb along her cheekbone. He's as nervous as she is, despite his years of experience.

"Anna," he says this time. His eyes rove over her face. She feels herself blushing pink under his scrutiny. With the wedding being at such short notice, and the wedding night even shorter, she hasn't had the opportunity to buy herself a nice trousseau. Instead she's clad in the same worn nightgown she's had for the last three years. It's distinctively threadbare.

But Mr. Bates—John—doesn't seem to mind at all. His eyes darken and soften, and he leans forward to press his lips to her forehead.

"You are so beautiful," he tells her. "So beautiful."

When she'd been preparing herself for the night, she'd thought she might feel more comfortable already undressed, to have that intimacy between them. Now she feels shy and awkward clad in only that flimsy cotton. She plays with the lapel of his jacket. He chuckles hoarsely.

"I didn't think it wise to roam the house in just my pyjamas," he tells her. "I didn't want to give any of the poor women a shock if they happened to find me stumbling around in the dark."

Anna swallows hard, but says boldly, "A pleasant shock, Mr. Bates."

"John," he whispers into her hair. "John tonight. Please."

"John," she repeats. It feels foreign and strange on her tongue, but she has the right to that intimacy now. In time, it will come easier.

"I'm going to undress now," he says, the faintest hint of a tremor in his voice. "But it doesn't have to mean anything. I don't want you to feel pressured just because it's an unexpected gift. I am beyond happy for the chance to hold you in my arms."

"I want to," she reassures him. It's been one of her closest guarded yearnings for so long. For years she's imagined what he looks like beneath the layers of starched clothing, and now she'll finally know for certain. She swallows hard. "Can I help you?"

"Of course you can," he answers at once, his hands falling back to his sides.

He lets her take the lead, undressing him in her own time, allowing her to acclimatise to this unfamiliar routine. It's so very different from undressing a woman; different layers, different buttons, the material thick and unfamiliar compared with the sheer silk and delicacy of the women's dresses. With every inch of new skin uncovered to her, Anna feels her heartbeat pick up, her breath quicken. His chest is a forest of thick, curling dark hair, and the sensation of it against her fingertips makes her ache in places that have lain dormant for longer than she's wished. He is wide and broad, a true man.

"Are you all right?" he whispers, even that sounding loud in the sacred silence that has stolen over them.

She nods, her throat dry. "I'm all right. I promise." She finds his hand and slips hers into it. She isn't sure which of them has the sweaty palm. "Shall…shall we get more comfortable?"

He smiles at her, the familiar crinkles deepening around his eyes. They give her some security, and she feels bolder as she pulls him towards the bed. The sheets are cool and strange against her naked skin; she shivers violently when his warm, hairy thigh presses against her.

"Are you all right?" he repeats.

"Yes," she manages. "I am. Just…kiss me. Please."

His eyes darken at her words, the eyes of a predator. He leans across the sheets to cup the side of her face in the palm of his hand, and all she knows is heat. Heat as he kisses her mouth with the urgency of years of restrained passion. Heat when his lips slide lower, wreathing a necklace around her throat. Heat when he sucks at her collar, her frantically beating pulse point. And, _oh God_ , heat when his mouth finds the painful peak of her nipple. She throws her head back against the pillows, her breath stuttering in her efforts to keep quiet, fingers threading tightly through the thick locks of his hair as she starts to lose control.

He doesn't stop kissing for even a moment as he opens her eyes to all the pleasures a man and his wife can enjoy.

* * *

 _July, 1920_

It's been four weeks since she last heard from him.

Anna sits on her bed with her legs curled beneath her. Piles upon piles of letters in her husband's scrawl are arranged on the bedding. It's organised chaos; she likes them in date order, likes to read them as if they're a page-turning novel. She knows them all by heart now. Some are laced with the sweet ache of dreams that seem so far beyond their reach. Others make her retreat into the garden of her mind, where her memories flower and bloom, as strong as the day they were planted. Still others hold the trademark brooding that she loves and hates in equal measure, though she supposes that he is more than qualified to have such dismal thoughts when he languishes in hell for a crime he has not committed. She picks up the final one now, the one inscribed with _June_ at the top of the page. How have four weeks passed?

The tone of the letter makes his silence now all the more ominous. The words are filled with longing and devotion, of whimsical thoughts of a time they can still only dream of. _I kiss you a thousand times over in my dreams_ , he tells her. _It is so hard not to take you in my arms whenever I see your lovely face. Facing punishment from the warders would be a worthy price to pay if I could refresh what it feels like to have you fitting so perfectly against me, to kiss your sweet mouth one more time…_

She traces her index finger along the loops and flourishes in his handwriting, closing her eyes to imagine him hunched over his little desk, scribbling furiously, his own mind filled with thoughts of her. If only she could see him now, try to understand the process that has led to this withdrawal. She'd draw him into her arms, tuck herself under his chin in a desperate attempt to let the hope pass through osmosis into his bloodstream, his heart pumping it all around his body. She'd tilt her head up and wait for him to look down on her with those dark Irish eyes, and then she'd pull him down to her level, let his breath mingle with hers and breeze across her face as she showers warm, soft kisses against his cheeks and his nose and his temple.

He'd squirm in her embrace, almost mad for her, and beg, "Kiss me properly, please."

Only then would she kiss him with the intensity to spark his hope back into a full fire.

Futile thoughts. Anna drops the letter back to her bed and pinches the bridge of her nose. She can feel the stirrings of a headache at her temples. She can do nothing else for the night. She needs to at least try to catch a few hours of sleep. Not that she'll succeed; she hasn't slept well since she realised that John was no longer writing to her. His words were her lullaby at night, and now she has none. But if she doesn't want Mrs. Hughes to start pecking at her for looking peaky, she needs to _try_.

Carefully re-wrapping the letters in ribbon and placing them on her bedside table, she slips beneath the sheets and turns down the lamp. Darkness presses in on her. She squeezes her eyes closed and shivers, but she can't stop the thoughts from preying.

There is something more to this silence. Anna knows her husband. She knows the way that his mind operates, knows how much time he has to brood trapped within the same four walls. What if he's lost all hope of ever getting released? Evidence has been slow at trickling through, and the visit to Mrs. Bartlett had proven to be futile. She doesn't know where to turn from here. What if he knows it, and wants to set her free, knowing that he'll never be out to spend his life with her? Her blood runs cold. It's something that she can't bear. He ought to know by now that she can't build a life without him. She will never, ever love again. Without him, she is incomplete. But he'd still think it was the best thing to do, and it scares her more than anything.

It's a thought she won't voice to anyone else for a further two weeks, but it niggles there at the back of her mind every single day, taunting her.

Somehow, everything hadn't been enough.

* * *

 _September, 1920_

He's home. He's safe. He's _free_.

And she can't stop touching him. She clings to the lapels of his woollen overcoat as they break apart from the first of many breathless kisses, smiling so wide that her cheeks ache. Seeing the unadulterated joy reflected back at her through her husband's own eyes is the most exhilarating thing. John holds her hand as they walk back towards the car, and he tips his hat towards Mr. Pratt. The chauffeur nods his welcome and waits for them to settle in before setting the engine back into life. As the grim, grey buildings of York melt away into hopeful green countryside, Anna can't help but touch him wherever she can; she runs her fingers over the bulk of his bicep, grips his solid forearm, clings tight to his strong, masculine hands. John alternates between gazing out at scenery that he probably thought he'd never see again and drinking in her features with barely-disguised longing. She looks much the same way. It's still sinking in, that he's here with her. Almost eighteen months have crawled by, and they have finally reached the end of the long, dark tunnel, the world around them bursting into light and life. She wants to kiss him again, to begin making up for the time that they have so cruelly lost, but Mr. Pratt's idle conversation from the front does not allow for the illusion that they are in their very own pocket of space.

They arrive back at Downton too soon, and she laments that they will both be swallowed up by the hustle and bustle of life in the big house before they've even had the chance to spend any time together.

John must feel the same way, for her tugs at her hand outside the entrance to the servants' courtyard, and whispers breathlessly, "Can't we spare a few minutes?"

Anna unhooks the dirty pocket watch that has been carefully wound to count the minutes of his freedom. The others will still be eating breakfast. They can manage a few minutes. She nods. People rarely come out of the servants' gate, and the paperboy has been and gone. They will not be disturbed. She draws him to the side of the entrance, pushes him against the wall, and stands on her tiptoes to reach his mouth again. He moves to cup both sides of her face, cradling her like a child in those big hands, his breath ragged, his mouth moving with scorching urgency. She's not felt the hot silk of his tongue since their wedding night, the throb in her body a harsh reminder. How she wishes that they could lose control. She needs him again.

But John is the one who slowly eases away from her, wild-eyed but mindful of where they are. He runs his hands down her body until he curls them around her waist, easing her against his chest. She presses her ear over his heart and listens to the thunderous beat.

"It's not fair," she murmurs. "I don't want to share you yet."

He chuckles coarsely. "God knows I don't want to share you either."

"I have no idea when we'll get another opportunity to be alone. Mrs. Hughes said she'd dress Lady Mary this morning so I could meet you, but I'll have to take over again once we've had breakfast. And our cottage isn't even ready yet…"

"I thought they might have had a cottage ready for us to move directly into," John admits. "But we've always made the best of sorry situations. Perhaps a certain room will be available to us again…" The comment hangs promisingly between them. Anna's throat goes dry at the mere heady suggestion. She can't think on it now. She'll never make it through breakfast if she does.

"We should go inside," she mumbles reluctantly.

"Kiss me one more time. Just to get me through the morning."

How can she deny a request like that, when he speaks in such honeyed tones? She peels her gloves off for good measure—how long it's been since she's touched his bare skin—and cups his stubbled cheeks in her palms, greedy as she kisses him breathless again.

Sounds from the courtyard break them unwillingly apart, and they turn to face the day. Later in the afternoon they will kiss many, many more times as they wander freely through the countryside, but for now Anna is content with the knowledge that John is right back where he belongs.


	2. II

**A/N:** Once again, angel-princess-anna's Banna timeline was a huge help in figuring out when to place events. She was also wonderful enough to send me a transcript of a scene in 4.4 complete with stage directions so I didn't have to break my promise of never watching that episode again. You have no idea how helpful that was, so thank you so much! You are amazing! :) Any remaining mistakes are all mine.

So yes, the first scene is a novelisation of a scene in 4.4 if that is something you'd rather skip, and there is a sex warning for the second and fourth scenes. I mean I personally wouldn't call it smut because it's nowhere near the graphicness I usually like, but yeah, it has a soft M rating because of FFN guidelines.

Finally, this was supposed to fit in at least in part with what might happen in series six, but I'd already written the final two parts before we got the new info about the timeline, and I didn't want to change my plan.

* * *

 _March, 1922_

They stand in the small space a thousand miles apart. Anna's heart hammers in her chest and her stomach lurches with sickness. She can't do this.

But she must.

He's smiling at her, but she can read the questions in his eyes, the forced, calm warmth in his voice. "How was it?"

Her throat works for a moment before the words spill out. Soulless. "All right. Lady Mary seemed quite pleased."

"Come here," he says, his voice still the warm honeyed tone that has been the subject of so many dreams on so many nights, the most soothing sound on earth. Now it is cloying. Suffocating. She can't listen to him any longer, because she is on the verge of losing herself.

"I better get on."

"Kiss me. Please." There is an undercurrent of begging in his tone.

She thinks back on all the times that she has whispered those words to him, or he to her, and it rents her heart open. How can she kiss him now, when she has been soiled? How can she pass her poison on to him? Their life together had been golden, had burned like the mighty phoenix, but now it has burst into flames and only the acrid ashes remain. It is over.

She has hesitated too long. John's voice is rough with emotion as he continues, "Or tell me what's happened. One or the other."

"Don't bully me," she snaps. It's the only way. Injured animals can be dangerous, and if she has to draw blood, mortally wound him, then she will. It's better than the alternative. It's better than a neck broken at the gallows.

He takes a few steps towards her, but she holds her ground—just. His voice wobbles imperceptibly. "I know you are upset. You are unhappy and I don't know why. You say it's not me, and I hope that's true. But there is a reason, and I need to find out what it is."

She can feel her chin wobbling with the effort it takes to keep it all inside. She wants nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and sob into his chest, to have him run his hands up and down her back in that soothing way of his, for him to murmur into her hair that it will all be all right, that he loves her, that this is just a terrible, terrible nightmare. But she can't. She _can't_. So she stands like steel, hardening her heart to the one person she has ever loved.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, John says, "I won't press you now, if it makes things worse. But in the end, I will find out."

Panic sluices through her stony exterior, but she does not flinch. He will never find out. He continues to stare at her with that pleading look, but she answers with sullen defiance.

"Anna!"

The sound of Mr. Carson's deep baritone slices through the moment, and John quickly disappears. Anna watches him leave. Her first victory over him in this bitter war. If she has to make him a casualty to keep him safe, then she will do it.

And she knows that her life will never be the same again.

* * *

 _December, 1922_

She rests her palms against the windowpane, breath misting on the window, watching as the little flakes of snow swirl gently to the ground. It's going to be a white Christmas.

She hears the scuffle of stockinged feet against the floorboards, and turns to see John entering the bedroom, stooping slightly under the doorframe. He offers her a smile and moves over to her. His hair is slightly damp from the washroom. His braces hang down from his trousers, his undershirt rolled up to his elbows. Chest hair peeps up from the neck. Anna swallows hard, shivering suddenly. It's more than the cold. She wants him.

The thought is frightening and exhilarating all in one go. They haven't made love since…since Mr. Green. They've kissed, of course, kissed deeply sometimes, but John has never pushed for more than she has felt comfortable to give. She will be forever grateful for that. Most husbands would have demanded their marital rights from her by now—if they hadn't tossed her aside as soiled goods the moment they'd found out that another man had touched her, no matter how unwanted the touch had been, no matter how violently her self-worth had been ripped from her.

She shakes the thoughts away quickly. She can't dwell on any of that now. The flame of desire is small; she doesn't want to extinguish it.

Thankfully, the present holds her firm as John moves up behind her and wraps his arms around her middle. She sighs, leaning back against him, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes. He burns her through the thin layers of their clothing.

"It looks like we made it home before the worst of it started," he notes.

She smiles; John's lack of romanticising Christmas is rather endearing. "It's pretty."

"It is," he agrees, but the soft kiss that he presses to her neck makes her think that he's probably not talking about the swirling eddies of snow. They stand mesmerised for a little while longer before John gently tugs on her waist.

"Come on," he murmurs into the crown of her head, "if we stand here much longer we'll both freeze to death. Let's get into bed."

"I'll leave the curtains," she says. "I want to watch it a little longer."

"Whatever you want, love."

She'd left the bed warmer to heat their sheets while her attention had been captured by the snowstorm, but the metal has long since cooled, leaving the sheets not nearly as desirably warm as she'd intended. She slips between them nevertheless, watching as John changes into his pyjamas. He pulls back the covers on his side of the bed and clambers in beside her. His face contorts.

"I thought you were supposed to be warming the sheets?"

"I did. I just got distracted by the snow."

"Typical." John's tone is pure, unadulterated affection, and suddenly she is blinking back tears of fierce love.

"I suppose we can snuggle up close for warmth," she says. He lifts up his arm for her to slip underneath, and she cuddles against him, resting her cheek against his chest, rocking with the rise and fall of his breathing. His fingers run idly down her back, fire trailing in his wake. She bites her lip. She _wants_ him.

When she lifts her head, John is confused. His thumb trails across her cheekbone.

"What is it, darling?" he whispers.

Anna takes a moment to try to formulate the right way of voicing her request, but she finds that there is only one true way of putting it. Direct, clear, leaving nothing to misinterpretation. "Let's make love."

His eyes widen as he stutters, "What?"

She takes a deep breath and repeats her request. "I want to so badly," she adds.

John swallows hard, looking more nervous than she's ever seen him. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she promises him. His mollycoddling can be tiring at times, but she has to remember that the rape (just thinking the word brings bile to her throat) hadn't just happened to her. The snake had violated their marriage too, and everything sacred about it. But she won't give it power over her any longer.

"We'll take it slowly," says John, and while there's a definite quiver in his voice, she's relieved that he doesn't rebuff her. "If you want to stop at any time, don't be afraid to tell me. It doesn't matter how far we've gone. Promise me you'll tell me to stop?"

She knows it's important that she reassures him in this. It's a big responsibility for him too, the easing back into marital intimacy. Her comfort is paramount to him. "I promise. I want you to kiss me now."

They start off slowly, gentle, chaste pecks that gradually grow in passion. Anna clings to his shoulders as he hovers above her on his forearm, his other hand cupping the side of her face. He tastes of the last cup of tea he'd taken before they'd retired for the night, and she whimpers in the back of her throat as the moist silk of his tongue meets hers.

They kiss for a long time, breaking apart only to remove a shirt here, a shift there. Even when they are gloriously naked between the sheets they carry on, hands exploring territory that has been denied to them for so long. It's like coming home.

Bit by bit, John turns his attention lower. Her neck. Collar bone. Sternum. First one nipple, and then the other. She's panting now, trembling, but it's pure desire. She feels a throbbing at her centre that she hasn't felt in so long, and it's so perfect that she wants to weep. It's her reminder that she is _alive_ , that she has fought the darkness and won.

John's breathing is heavy too as he brushes his nose against the underside of her breasts and showers kisses down her navel. The sheets fall free, but she's not cold anymore. She's almost unbearably warm. Searing where she really wants him to be.

When he heeds her silent plea and slips lower it is almost her undoing. She tries to control her breathing and concentrate on other things but it is impossible. Soon she is a mass of gooey limbs, and the delight on his face as he moves to kiss her mouth again prises open her heart and makes the newly knitted muscle ache. She wraps her legs around his waist and encourages him to take the final step.

And it's all red pulses, desperate kisses between wet whispers, sweaty flesh slapping sweetly against sweaty flesh, more pleasure than she thinks she can stand. Her nails dig into his back, and her lips bless whatever patch of skin she can reach.

"I love you," he murmurs, a holy worship to a goddess. "I love you, I love you."

He's gentler than he's ever been before, but the combination of their enforced abstinence and the relief that she finds in his reassuring bulk over her means that she finds her pleasure for the second time in a fierce rush, his name a long, high, needy sound, smothered against his perspiration-soaked hair. He stills, and even though she can feel the horrible tension in every shaking muscle, he takes the time to kiss her slowly, giving her time to acclimatise before he thinks about himself.

"Go on," she pleads at last.

He groans against her neck and carries out her request. Blindly she seeks out his mouth once more, muffling her gasps against his lips as the aftershocks tremble through her, and it is only half a minute later when John stills against her with one last cry. He's shaking when he collapses onto his side beside her, and she follows him at once, uncaring that it's messy and slightly uncomfortable. She vines herself around him and rests her head over his chest, listening to the harsh drumroll of his heart against her ear. Neither of them move for a long time, until John eventually stirs, nudging his nose against her temple until she looks up at him. His eyes are dark, brimming with so many emotions.

"Happy Christmas," he whispers.

His words are heavy with things left unsaid, and she can't help but laugh joyfully, tears falling at the reclamation of the life they've always loved.

"Happy Christmas," she echoes, and she lifts herself up to kiss him again.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, but she has never been so warm.

* * *

 _July, 1924_

"Come back to bed, my darling."

John's words break through her reverie, and she glances at him through the mirror to find his silhouette scrambling into a sitting position. Despite the warm July air, there are goose bumps on her skin. She is frightened and unable to sleep.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she mutters, remaining in place. She's hunched up on the seat in front of the vanity. There's little place else for her to go in this bedroom.

"Don't be sorry. What's wrong?"

"I couldn't sleep," she confides. "I can't stop thinking about this visit to Scotland Yard."

She can't see his features properly, but she knows his mouth is hardening. He'd been so angry at the way that Inspector Vyner had treated her. She'd seen it in the darkness of his eyes. "I can't pretend that I know what any of this is about, but I can't bear to see you worrying about it prematurely."

"It was the way he spoke to me. And it's so close now…"

"I won't leave you alone for a minute," he reassures her. "We'll just get it over and done with and then we can enjoy the rest of the time we have in London. Scout out the house, see what kind of condition it's in. We can even have tea there. We've never been there together."

She knows that he's far more worried about this trip to Scotland Yard than he is letting on, and while that does nothing to allay her own anxiety, she can't help but love him for his desire to keep her calm. It's with this thought in mind that she finally yields and rises from the chair. She's stiff from sitting there for so long, listening to her husband's heavy breathing and praying to God that everything will be all right. Haven't they suffered enough?

Padding around the room, she slips back into bed. John envelopes her in his arms at once, hot and reassuring.

"Is there anything I can do?" he whispers into her hair.

She shakes her head, managing a weak smile. "Not much. Just hold me. And maybe give me a kiss. That always makes me feel better."

John slips his finger under her chin and tilts her head back so he can see her properly. His eyes search her face for long seconds, though she doubts he can see much in the darkness. She squeezes his waist and he moves forward, pressing his lips to her forehead.

He keeps them there until she drifts back into an uneasy sleep, safe in the circle of his embrace.

* * *

 _December, 1924_

When Anna wakes to a solid bulk beside her, low snores rasping in her ear, she's sure that she's still dreaming. Carefully manoeuvring in his arms, she peers into the face that she has missed so much over the past few months. His countenance is smooth in his sleep. He's almost smiling, a sight that tugs at her heartstrings at how boyish it makes him look. His hair, tousled from their frantic passion of the previous evening, falls into his face. He is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen.

She pinches herself.

It hurts. And it cements the heady fact that this is _real_.

She knows that she ought to let him sleep, but her blood hums with the adrenaline that courses through her entire system. They have missed so much time together over the past months and years. She cannot bear to miss one second more with him.

She kisses him back to consciousness.

"I wasn't expecting a good morning like that," he says, his voice hoarse and laced with drowsiness, when she pulls away from him. His hands slide beneath the covers, finding her hips and pulling her closer to him.

She feels the stirrings of his arousal against her as she settles over him, and she rubs herself non-too subtly against him. He kisses her harder, deeper, and she winds her fingers into his hair as she slips a hand between their bodies to tease him to readiness. He groans in the back of his throat, a sound that makes the hairs on her body stand on end and her breath quicken, and she responds in kind when he finds her slick folds. She kisses him again, clinging to him, allowing him to slip inside. She bites at his bottom lip to stop herself from crying out too loudly at the feeling of being so intimate with him again. Nothing can compare with the feeling. Nothing.

It's frantic and fast, to be expected after so long without each other. John's hands are not still on her as she takes her pleasure from him, and her mouth feels swollen from the intensity of their kisses. Her fingernails bite deep into his skin. She has to have this.

And then there is a series of loud knocks on their front door.

"What the bloody hell?" growls John, frustration veining through his voice. It is so hard to remain still when their lower halves are locked tightly together, but Anna does pause, pushing her tangled hair away from her face, quivering with need.

"Ignore it," she pleads. She needs this.

But the knocking is insistent. For one golden night the world had been theirs and theirs alone, but ugly reality has a way of rearing its head. She ought to know this by now. Slipping from his body, she watches as John palms on his undershirt, still muttering curses under his breath as he pulls on some bottoms over his still aroused state.

Anna wraps herself in one of the sheets that has come loose in their passion, shuffling after him. She peeks around the wall as John opens the door a crack.

"Mr. Bates!"

The cheerful Scottish brogue is unmistakable: Mrs. Hughes.

"Mrs. Hughes, what a surprise. We weren't expecting to see you." John obviously struggles with his manners for the moment, and Anna knows why; she giggles silently at the thought of him having to admit her into their home when she is merely wrapped in a sheet and his excitement is plain for anyone to see. "Would you like to come in?" His reluctance is betrayed in his tone of voice.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hughes seems to recognise that she is not truly wanted. "Oh, no, Mr. Bates, I don't want to intrude. I just came to tell you not to worry about coming into work this morning. I know you're due up there in an hour, so I thought I would have a walk down to make sure that you don't come in until luncheon, for the Christmas dinner. Mr. Carson will take care of his lordship, and I'll see to Lady Mary myself. You and Anna have spent far too long apart. You need a little time to yourselves."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he stammers. "That's very kind of you."

"Think nothing of it. Lord knows you've had a trying year. No doubt you have lots to catch up on now that you're together again."

Oh yes, they have lots to catch up on. The mere words make Anna's stomach flutter, but it's more muted than it had been before. Because Mrs. Hughes' words have stirred up something else too.

John shuts the door and turns away, a look of utter relief upon his face.

"Thank God for that," he says. "Not that I'd had much thought for going up to the abbey this morning, if I'm honest."

"No," Anna manages.

Concern crawls across her husband's face as he starts up the stairs towards her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replies, though her voice wobbles. She pauses for a moment, before ploughing on. "It's just…I've missed you so much these last months."

And the floodgates finally open. She'd shed happy tears last night, but now all of the fear and loneliness and heartbreak fractures and comes loose, wrenching the sobs from her chest. John is upon her in the next moment, enfolding her in his strong arms, snugging her tight to his chest.

"I'm here," he repeats in a quiet, steady mantra. "I'm here."

She presses her forehead to him, allowing the cadence of his hands down her back to control her breathing. She keeps her arms wrapped around his waist, not relinquishing the pressure. They probably make an odd sight, he in his underthings, she in nothing more than a sheet—but somehow it does not matter.

When John eventually pulls away, just enough that he can wipe her remaining tears with the pads of his thumbs, she looks up into his face. His features are set in that familiar expression of exquisite agony.

"I'm so sorry for having to put you through this," he whispers.

"I know why you did it, I just…I couldn't have lived the rest of my life without you, John. Do you know how torturous it was for me, to not have the smallest inkling of where you were, or even that you were safe? That on those long nights I was frightened that I would live the rest of my life like that, just me on my own in this house that should have been both of ours?"

"It was only ever a temporary measure," he reassures her. "Just until I could be certain that you wouldn't be re-arrested for what that bastard did to you."

"A temporary measure where you traded your life for mine!" she says, her voice cracking. God, the tears are starting again. "What if new evidence had never come to light? You would have been wanted and on the run for the rest of time! And a life without you was no life at all, John. No life at all."

John's eyes are suspiciously wet too. "I can only say that I'm sorry, Anna. It was never my intention to make you hurt or suffer, you have to believe that."

"I do. But that doesn't make it any easier for me to come to terms with."

They stand together for a few minutes more, before Anna pulls away. Pulls her armour back on. She should focus on the present just now. A present that includes John right here with her.

"It's a waste if we just stand here like this," she says softly. "Let's go back to bed."

"No time with you is ever a waste," he reassures her, but he does not protest when she takes his hand and tugs him along after her. Once in their bedroom, she turns to him, acutely aware that she is still only standing in a flimsy sheet.

"Kiss me," she says. "Kiss me and make me forget all of this pain, just for a while."

He bends in close and catches her mouth in the softest kiss that she's ever known. It is a prelude to the inevitable.

This time their lovemaking is slow. Slower than it had been even on the first night they had reconnected in the aftermath of the attack. John takes every opportunity to rain satin kisses down on her, whispering ardent words of love and devotion against her skin. She winds her limbs around him and holds him close, never letting him far from her. He touches her with deliberate passion, running his fingers over every pleasurable spot she has, and when she finds completion in his arms, he sighs as if it's his single greatest achievement. He carries on kissing her, growing steadily clumsier as his actions take on an erratic rhythm, and she squeezes her eyes closed, reminding herself that this is real.

He wilts beside her in the aftermath, pulling her into his arms. She breathes in the scent of sweat and sex on his skin, and lets the final tears fall. She has to leave the past in the past, look forward to the future. As he spoons himself around her back, she thinks that perhaps she can do that now.

She has to believe that, finally, the worst is truly behind them.

* * *

 _May, 1925_

John is home late.

She sits on the edge of their bed twisting her hands together, glancing at the clock every few moments in the hope that time will jump forward. She can almost hear Mrs. Patmore's voice in her head, berating her that a watched pot never boils, but she can't help herself. She needs him here with her.

When she finally hears the door click open, she springs to her feet. She paces the room like a caged, restless lioness as she listens to his nightly routines of locking up. It seems to take an age before she hears his customary half-step on the stairs.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he apologises with a weary sigh when he pushes open the bedroom door. "I thought his lordship was going to spend the entire night in the library and I would be forced to sit in the servants' hall like a fool, waiting for dawn."

"It's all right," she reassures him. "I'm glad you're home now."

He's already discarded his tie and collar, and he's making short work of his waistcoat too. He's tired, she can tell, but this is a conversation that can't wait until the morning. Anna crosses the room to his side, forcing him to still in the process of unbuttoning his shirt.

"Is there something wrong?" he asks her quizzically.

She gives a beatific smile. "Nothing's wrong, no."

"Then what is it?"

"This afternoon, when I had to run an errand for Lady Mary in the village, I called in to see Doctor Clarkson."

The atmosphere changes at once. John's eyes widen in fear. " _What?_ Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

"It's fine, it's nothing," she tells him hastily.

"Nothing? How can you say that? No one ever visits the doctor for nothing. Are you all right? You're not ill are you? What did he say?"

She laughs at his barrage of questions, reaching out to take his face between her palms. She forces his gaze down to hers, looking deep into his frightened eyes.

"I'm all right," she reiterates calmly, then laughs. "Oh, God, John, I've never been better."

He's looking at her as if he thinks she's gone quite mad and, beaming, she brings his hand to her stomach, splaying his palm against the flat expanse.

"Say hello to Baby Bates," she says quietly.

At once his expression transforms. Gone is the nervous trepidation of a cornered animal. Instead his expression melts into one of pure, raw joy. She has never seen a man look so happy in all of her life.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," he says, his voice hoarse.

Anna laughs again, pressing his hand more firmly to her abdomen. "You're not dreaming, John. I'm pregnant. We did it."

"We did it," he repeats in a daze. "God, I love you."

"I love you too," she says, and feels the whole weight of it burning behind her eyes. "So much more than you could possibly understand. Now come here. I think after news like this you should kiss me."

"With the greatest pleasure in the world," he promises her, dipping his head down to hers. She melts under his touch as his tongue slips between her lips, and he loves her softly. He's still got his hand pressed against her stomach, but the other moves to her hip, drawing her closer, keeping her steady.

When he eventually pulls away his eyes are blazing with so much hope that she could almost sob. It's taken seeing it there to realise just how much has been stripped away from them in the last few years.

"Sit down on the edge of the bed," he murmurs.

"Why?" she teases, but he doesn't seem to be in the mood for it.

"Please," he beseeches her.

Anna runs her fingers through his hair before capitulating. Settling herself onto the mattress, she watches as John slowly begins to lower himself to the floor, using the bed to guide him.

"John, stop!" she protests at once. "You'll hurt your knee!"

He pays her no mind, bracing his hands either side of her waist.

"You told me to say hello to Baby Bates," he whispers. "So…hello, Baby Bates."

And he leans forward and presses his forehead to her stomach.

The whole thing is so unexpected, so beautiful, that this time Anna can't stop her tears. They swell and fall silently, for which she is grateful. She doesn't want to disturb the sacredness of this moment, father and baby connecting for the very first time. John's cheek is warm against her as he turns his head, and she sifts her fingers through his thick hair.

"You are so loved already," he tells her stomach, and presses a soft kiss there.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but Anna thinks a kiss is worth a thousand more. She closes her eyes, locking the memory within the chambers of her heart for all eternity.

* * *

 _December, 1925_

It's over.

Anna gives a breathless, dizzying laugh as the wriggling bundle is placed into her arms. Suddenly every moment of despair, every second of heartbreak, every agonising pain has been worth it, because this is the end result.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Bates, you have a daughter," says Doctor Clarkson, and she makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. A little girl.

"She's a bonny wee thing," says Mrs. Hughes from the other side of the bed. "And just like you, Anna. I'm sure Mr. Bates is going to be very pleased."

"When can he come up?" she asks. She's missed him so much these last long, lonely hours. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to do this without him.

But she has.

"Soon," Doctor Clarkson reassures her. "We'll just tidy away the equipment and then he'll be free to spend time with you to his heart's content."

"Thank you," she murmurs.

Their little girl is squalling in her arms, legs kicking in the constraints of the thick blanket she is swaddled in, her tiny fists flailing in the air. Anna counts her fingers and feels her toes, almost unbearable love swelling to a crescendo inside her. She is here at last. The Baby Bates they have both longed for for so long.

"You are so loved," she whispers, echoing the words her husband spoke so long ago now. The baby doesn't seem to care about this fact, crying louder. She can only smile, bringing her up so she can kiss her forehead, even though her arms feel like lead. Mrs. Hughes is right: the baby has the Smith look about her. Fair hair, button nose, the shape of the eyes. It's too early to say what else she might inherit. Anna had wanted to see more of John in her, but she knows he will be proud as punch to have his wife's mirror toddling around after him. The thought makes her smile again. She just can't help herself.

Their daughter settles with a final discontented breath. Anna is thankful that she can put off feeding her for just a few more minutes; she wants John to meet her, to hold her in his arms. She strokes a chubby cheek with the back of her finger, still so in awe that she and John have made something so perfect.

"Is there room for a large one?"

On cue, John's hoarse voice echoes through the room. Anna lifts her head to find him loitering by the door. She hadn't even heard the others leave, so consumed had she been. He looks shyly at her, as if he doesn't quite feel like he belongs in this setting. Anna pushes herself up into a more rigid sitting position, beaming.

"There's always room for Daddy, isn't there?" she coos to the bundle in her arms. "Come and sit with us, Daddy. Come and meet your daughter."

"A daughter." The words leave him in a rush of air, and his grin is enough to light up the room. Anna knows that it was secretly what he was wanting. A little baby girl to coddle.

He creeps towards the bed, evidently wary of disturbing the tiny bundle, and settles himself awkwardly beside her. She turns herself carefully so that he can see the baby's face properly, never taking her eyes from his as he drinks in the sight of his daughter for the very first time. She never, ever wants to forget this moment. The unfettered joy on John's face makes her heart contort with almost overpowering love for him, and she watches as a tear escapes and runs down his cheek.

"She's so beautiful," he whispers. "My God, Anna, she looks exactly like you."

"I thought you'd be pleased with that," she teases. "Would you like to hold her?"

"Can I?" John is an endearing mix of eager and apprehensive.

"No, you can't. I only used you to get her, and that's all I want from you." She snorts. "Of course you can, don't be silly. Here, take her for a few minutes."

They laugh bashfully as the sacred transfer is made for the very first time. Anna makes sure he's supporting the head right before moving away. Tears well at the sight, the large man cradling his tiny, tiny baby in his arms. He bends down and feathers little kisses into the fuzz on her head and the tears fall. John is going to be perfect.

At last he looks up, sighing when she rests her head into the crook of his shoulder.

"Thank you so much," he whispers.

"Thank _you_ ," she counters. "It was a team effort."

"I had the easy part."

"Well, I won't challenge you there."

"God, I felt so helpless, standing out there. I'm so sorry I couldn't be here with you."

"I'd say that it was worth it for the end result." Anna can't stop herself from reaching out and touching the little miracle nestled in her father's arms, squeezing a foot gently in her hand. "But I do want a reward."

"Absolutely anything, Anna. You name it, it's yours."

"That's a tempting caveat…" she muses. "But I won't be greedy. Just a kiss, please."

"I think I can accommodate that," he murmurs.

She leans in to him, mindful that he can't move much because of their baby, and he closes the distance between them and presses his mouth to hers. It's chaste but lingering, and she can feel the love passing from him into her. It warms her from the inside. He presses a kiss to her forehead for good measure when he breaks away, and nuzzles his nose into the sweaty hair at her temple.

"I love you so much," he says.

"Love you too," she replies, kissing him one more time.

The jolt disturbs their baby, and she begins to whimper. John pulls back, wide-eyed. Anna laughs at his expression.

"It's a sound you'll have to get used to, my dear," she says, loosening the ties at the front of her nightgown and easing it down over her shoulder. "I think she might be hungry. Here, pass her over."

John obliges, and soon the babe is sucking at her teat. It's not an entirely comfortable sensation, but she's sure she'll grow to appreciate it. Already she can barely bear to remember what it was like not to have her child cradled in her arms. John slips his arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer. She rests her head against his shoulder as he slips his spare arm underneath hers to support the baby's weight.

"We really need to name her," John murmurs as he watches her feast. "She can't be Baby Bates forever."

"I don't know, it's rather sweet."

"Perhaps it can be her nickname, then."

Anna giggles at the thought. "Deal. Are we still decided on the name?"

"I am if you are."

"I am."

And just like that, it is official. Their little daughter is no longer a figment of their dreams, but corporeal, real. A true part of their family. And, just like that, the darkest days are banished forever.


End file.
